


Dirty Laundry

by halcyon1993



Series: The Kinky Adventures of a Wolf and His Boy [80]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek Hale, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Face-Sitting, First Time, Getting Together, Humiliation, Jock Straps, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Manhandling, Mirror Sex, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Rough Sex, Scent Kink, Sloppy Makeouts, Sweat, Top Derek Hale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:07:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26734849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halcyon1993/pseuds/halcyon1993
Summary: Stiles finds a jockstrap in Derek's laundry hamper. Sexytimes ensue.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: The Kinky Adventures of a Wolf and His Boy [80]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/887604
Comments: 44
Kudos: 493
Collections: Teen Wolf ▶ Derek Hale / Stiles Stilinski





	Dirty Laundry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [edmundbrimmer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/edmundbrimmer/gifts).



Stiles pulls his Jeep to a stop outside the recently rebuilt Hale House deep in the preserve, Derek's Camaro right next to him, and spares a few moments to just sit there and prepare himself. He's here to deliver some research Derek told him to do the previous week, and his heart beats a bit faster in his chest at the thought of seeing the Alpha again.

He feels a bit pathetic. His body betrays him whenever they're in the same room. Hell, it happens whenever Derek simply crosses his mind—which means most of his waking hours, if he's honest with himself. It's like what he used to feel for Lydia before he got over her, only much, _much_ worse. His heart will do that stupid skipping thing it's doing now, and if he and Derek pass particularly close to each other and the scent of him reaches Stiles' nose, Stiles' traitorous dick will take an interest, beginning to swell. He swears the werewolves must all be able to smell the spike of arousal, a theory that's given more credence each time Erica smirks at him and Scott wrinkles his nose.

Yeah…he's definitely pathetic, lusting after their Alpha like this.

And it's not just lust—no, Stiles wants it all. He wants to go on dates and talk, to just lie together in bed, staring into each other's eyes like lovesick fools.

As if. As if someone as guarded as Derek would ever want to do any of that stuff.

Least of all with Stiles.

Derek still doesn't really talk to him unless he has to—like telling Stiles to do research—even though the pack is now stable. They ended up sitting next to each other during one of the pack's recently instated movie nights, and Derek was tense the whole time, like having to be beside Stiles was the worst thing ever. Needless to say, it did _wonderful_ things for Stiles' already low self-esteem.

And yet, despite how clear it is that Derek only tolerates him at best, Stiles pines.

When he believes he's prepared himself enough, Stiles grabs the folder of research he printed out the night before and exits his Jeep. He heads toward the house, ascends the front steps of the wrap-around porch and, after squaring his shoulders, knocks on the front door. He waits about twenty seconds, listening for the sound of footsteps on the other side, before knocking again more forcefully. Once more, he hears nothing.

"But his car's here…" Stiles says under his breath.

Is Derek still asleep or something? It's Sunday, but it's also nearing 1 p.m.—way too late to still be in bed. And that's coming from a teenage boy.

 _Maybe he's out doing wolfy things in the preserve,_ Stiles muses, tapping his foot. _I should've texted first._

With a sigh, Stiles considers his options. Does he wait here for Derek to return from wherever he is? Go back home and try again another time? Leave the research for Derek to find and go through on his own? Or—most daringly of all—see if the door is unlocked and wait for Derek inside?

Decisions, decisions…

Stiles almost goes with option number three, but curiosity gets the better of him. He tries the fourth option first. No harm in checking.

Plus, he kind of has to pee; he shouldn't have had that extra cup of coffee earlier.

Reaching for the door handle, Stiles allows himself to do a little happy dance when it clicks and opens without resistance. It figures. Derek left his car here, so he can't have planned to be gone long. The house is also in the middle of nowhere, and he's an Alpha werewolf who can defend himself against most things and people who might seek to harm or steal from him. What does Derek need to lock his front door for?

Entering the building, Stiles' heart beats faster for a different reason than before. It's no longer from the thought of seeing Derek, but because he's alone in the Hale House for the first time. At least Derek has been present when Stiles came here before, and most of the time, other members of the pack have been around too. It's exciting being by himself now. His curiosity ramps up, coming with a desire to explore, even as the old adage about the cat runs through his mind.

If Derek comes back and finds him looking through something he shouldn't… But the opportunity is too good to pass up.

Making a quick detour into the living room to drop the research on the coffee table, Stiles uses the time he has wisely. He foregoes exploring much on the ground floor—he's already seen most of it—and instead focuses his attention upstairs.

The place is huge, with most members of the pack getting their own bedrooms along the hallway at the top of the stairs. Stiles doesn't have one, and as always, he shoves away a twinge of jealousy at the thought. Several of the bedrooms—the ones belonging to couples—have en suites, but there are two full bathrooms as well for those that don't.

None of these rooms interest Stiles all that much. Some—like Scott and Allison's—he's already seen properly, and others—like Erica and Boyd's—he's seen a glimpse or two. He wouldn't dare to go into Lydia and Jackson's room; he's more scared of the banshee finding out than he is of Derek. This leaves Isaac, Cora, and finally, Derek's master suite at the end of the hall. Stiles takes a quick peek in the former two bedrooms, not surprised in the least to discover that Isaac's is neat and tidy and Cora's is even messier than Stiles' back home.

Finally, Stiles gets to Derek's. He tiptoes down the hall toward it, even though no one is around to hear him. At least he doesn't think anyone is.

He stops right outside the closed door and listens closely to his surroundings.

Silence.

Good.

Following a deep breath, Stiles opens the door. It swings open slowly, and he steps inside, feeling a bit like Alice falling down the rabbit hole.

Ensuring the door is pushed to behind him, Stiles surveys the interior of the bedroom. The floor, like all the others in the house, is hardwood, but there's a plush red rug right in the middle to add a bit of contrast. To the left, Stiles spots a walk-in closet that contains all of Derek's clothes—a lot of henleys, jeans and leather, from the looks of things.

How shocking.

To the right lies Derek's en suite bathroom. It's a bit bigger than Scott and Allison's, with a clawfoot tub and a large shower stall taking up most of the space. The walls are all done with the same white tiles, small with black borders.

In the middle of the bedroom is the main feature: Derek's king-size bed, made up with sheets the same colour as the rug. Stiles touches the material. He doesn't know what they're made of, but damn, they might just be the softest things he's ever felt.

He pictures Derek lying in them late at night, sleeping peacefully.

Or better yet, atop them, naked, a hand on his hard cock as he pleasures himself…fuck. Fucking hell.

This is not what Stiles should be doing right now—thinking of his crush like this. He's probably filling up the room with the scent of his arousal, leaving behind an obvious trace of himself that Derek won't have any trouble detecting. He should leave.

He marches back toward the door, but as he walks, his bladder makes itself known again, demanding to be emptied. He forgot about it, lost in his fantasies as he was. There's no harm in making use of Derek's bathroom, is there? Just this once? He'll be in and out in two minutes or less, and Derek never has to know.

Marvelling at his own balls, Stiles does just that. He doesn't bother shutting the bathroom door, just heads straight over to the toilet to do his business.

He's just tucking himself away again when his gaze lands on the laundry hamper in the corner. It's open and filled with Derek's dirty clothes—and right on top is…no, it couldn't be. Derek doesn't wear…

Does he?

Before he can think better of it, Stiles snatches up the article of clothing that caught his eye and, yup, apparently Derek wears jockstraps.

Well then.

As if Stiles needed any more sexy imagery to use in his late-night masturbatory sessions.

The pouch of the jock is off-white, and the waistband and straps are similar but with two red lines going along them to give them a bit of style. Stiles can't get it out of his head that this is _Derek's_ jockstrap he's holding in his hands. And it's _used_. Derek's dick and balls were supported by the pouch maybe that very morning, and the straps cupped the fine ass that Stiles would stare at all day if he didn't fear it would end with his bloody death.

The mere idea of holding another guy's dirty jock should fill Stiles with revulsion. Certainly, if it were anyone else's, it would.

But it doesn't.

He should drop it again and hightail it back downstairs already, if only for his—apparently limited—sense of self-preservation.

But he doesn't.

Instead, his body acting of its own accord, Stiles brings the jockstrap to his face. He sticks his nose right in the slightly rough material and breathes in, and his eyelids flutter as the scent of musk and sweat fills his nostrils. It's masculine and heady, the smell of Derek's sex, just the right side of unclean to still be immensely enjoyable. Stiles stands there sniffing the jock and grabs his dick through his jeans with his other hand. He's painfully hard now, his dick pressing insistently against his zipper.

God, how Stiles wants to free himself and stroke one out right there in Derek's bathroom. He could come in under a minute if he—

"Stiles…what the hell are you doing?"

Snapping open his eyes, Stiles feels his blood go cold in his veins. Derek's right there in the bathroom doorway, staring back at him with an expression that's half incredulous, half irritated.

"Uhh…it's not—" Stiles starts to say. Then he registers that his words are muffled by the jock and hastily shoves it behind his back. As if that would hide what Derek caught him doing. Just how long was he in here, sniffing Derek's jockstrap like it was the best thing he'd ever smelt? He must've been so in the moment that he didn't even hear Derek come home.

Fuck. Fuck his stupid, stupid brain for doing this to him…

"It's not what it looks like?" Stiles finishes, his voice going up at the end so it sounds like a question.

"Really?" Derek says disbelievingly.

"Yes?"

Derek glowers at him. "Because it looks like you broke into my house to sniff my dirty underwear. And you were getting off on it."

Stiles worries at his bottom lip. There's no possible way he gets out of this alive. Oh well. He had a—mostly—good run. "Don't kill me!" he squeaks.

With a scoff, Derek comes closer, and Stiles realises for the first time the state the Alpha is in:

Derek wears nothing but a pair of running shorts. The bare skin of his torso glistens with a thin sheen of sweat, and his hair is plastered to his forehead. This answers Stiles' earlier question—Derek must have been out running in the preserve when he arrived. Stiles gets caught up salivating over the werewolf's chest—pecs so big they're like tits, chest hair dark and soft-looking—that he can't seem to make himself back away. The distance closes, until there's maybe an inch between them and Stiles' entire world is taken up by the older man.

"Derek?" he says, his eyes wide. They're around the same height, but right now it's like Derek towers over him.

He feels tiny.

"I know you want me," Derek says with a low growl. "I've always known, so don't try to hide it—and after what I just saw, there's no point anymore."

 _Okay…he might have a point there,_ Stiles thinks. Still.

"But—"

" _Just say it_." Derek's eyes flash red—and that should not be as sexy as it is.

"S-say what?"

Derek's nostrils flare as he inhales, and then he lets the air out slow and measured, as if he's trying to get a handle on some difficult emotion or desire.

To finally follow through on his past threats to rip Stiles' throat out with his teeth?

Or maybe to— No, that's impossible. Derek doesn't even like him. The desire Derek's battling couldn't be of the sexy variety instead of violent.

…Right?

"Fuck it," Derek says then, interrupting Stiles' rumination. He surges forward.

Before Stiles knows what's hit him, Derek kisses him and winds his muscular arms around Stiles' body, dragging them the rest of the way together. Stiles makes an embarrassing yelping sound as he clumsily attempts to reciprocate the kiss. He holds his hands at his sides, unsure where to put them, what to do with them—especially seeing as he's still got Derek's jockstrap in one of them.

Despite how embarrassing his obvious inexperience is, this isn't bad for a first kiss. Stiles parts his lips on a sigh and moans as Derek slips his tongue into his mouth.

God, the taste of him…

And now he feels like one of those vexing girls he's seen at school, always mooning over their boyfriends, gossiping about them with their friends.

He shouldn't judge; if the shoe fits.

Too soon, reality intrudes, and while he doesn't have a leg to stand on right now, he needs answers.

"Wait!" he gasps out, pulling back. He holds up his palm when Derek goes to kiss him again. "Wait," he repeats. "But…you hate me."

Derek rolls his eyes. "If I hated you, why would I kiss you?" he rebuts. He arches a bushy eyebrow, silently calling Stiles an idiot.

"That's what I wanna know!" Stiles spreads his arms wide, the jockstrap still dangling from one hand.

"Stiles…" Derek sighs. "I don't hate you. I've never hated you."

"Not even when we first met? C'mon…"

Derek shakes his head and runs his fingers through his hair, brushing the sweat-damp strands back from his forehead. "You annoyed the shit out of me, yeah. Still do sometimes. But…you're really gonna make me say it, aren't you?"

Stiles waits impatiently, allowing the silence to speak for him.

"Fine," Derek acquiesces. He breaks eye contact, like he can't bear to look Stiles in the eye as he confesses. "I…like you. I have for a while."

Stiles struggles to process this new information. His mouth goes slack, and his arms drop to his sides. What Derek just said doesn't fit into everything Stiles has seen, every interaction they've had since that fateful day in the preserve when he and Scott were looking for Scott's inhaler. He brings up the movie night Derek got stuck sitting next to him, and how Derek seems to only ever deign to speak to him when he doesn't have any other choice.

"I was trying to stay away," Derek explains. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows nervously. "Do you know how hard it's been?"

Stiles doesn't. "Enlighten me," he says.

"You're still underage, Stiles—and your dad is the Sheriff. That's a recipe for disaster. You always smell like you want me, so the way I was acting was just so I'd be less…tempted."

"So you sitting tense as fuck was—"

"Because I wanted to kick everyone else out, throw you over my shoulder, take you up here and fuck you into the mattress," Derek says. His eyes flash red again.

Stiles flails around a bit and nearly hits himself in the face. "Jesus Christ! You can't just— You can't just _say_ things like that!"

"It's the truth. And so you don't feel bad about it anymore, the reason I didn't give you your own room when I was planning the rebuild of this place was because…when the time came, I was hoping your bedroom would be this one. With me."

 _For fuck sake, now is_ not _the time to start crying,_ Stiles berates himself. He's just so damn touched.

"And now?" he asks. "Why'd you kiss me now?"

"Because I found you sniffing my jockstrap, Stiles," Derek says flatly. "I come home after trying to get rid of some of my restless energy to find you in here, stinking up the place so it smells like sex."

Oh. Right. Duh. "So you don't…mind?"

"I mind a lot," Derek replies. He looks down at himself. "But not in the way you were thinking."

Following the werewolf's gaze, Stiles' eyes nearly bug out of their sockets as he gets a look at the bulge in Derek's running shorts. It's… _big_.

Making eye contact again, Derek grabs Stiles' hand—the one with the jockstrap still in it—and pulls it up toward Stiles' face. "Do it," he says, injecting the command with some of his Alpha authority. "Let me see."

Even though he's not a beta and the Alpha command doesn't actually compel him, Stiles does it. His face is aflame as Derek forces the jock against his nose and he breathes in, making it long and exaggerated so there's no chance Derek will miss it.

He doesn't. Derek's eyes glow a steady red now, not just a flash, and his lips stretch into a wide grin that promises all sorts of nasty things. Gone are the nerves and the poorly hidden vulnerability he displayed minutes ago. The wolf is front and centre now—the animal, the apex predator, has come to ruin the intruder in its den.

Stiles can't wait.

"God, you really love it, don't you?" Derek says. "Should've known you'd be a kinky little shit."

Stiles groans and follows blindly as Derek begins leading him out of the bathroom. The Alpha spins him around, picks him up and tosses him onto the bed, where he lands on his back, the jockstrap falling away. He bounces a couple times atop the mattress and blinks up at Derek, anticipating whatever he's going to do next.

"You like sniffing my dirty jockstrap, right?" Derek enquires. He climbs onto the bed with him, raised up on his knees over Stiles' waist.

The teenager can only nod, his words stuck in his throat.

Derek smirks. "I've got good news for you, then."

"W-what is it?"

"This."

Derek whips his running shorts off in a flash, and then he's left in another jockstrap. It's similar to the other one, but black with white lines on the straps instead. The pouch is stretched obscenely by Derek's bulge, barely able to contain it—and somehow, even though there's quite a bit of distance between Stiles' nose and the black jock, the stench of Derek's sweat and lust is more pungent than ever. It radiates off of him like heat, fogging up Stiles' mind. It must be because Derek has just returned from a run, and the sweat and musk is fresh, undiluted by time, a shower or deodorant.

"C'mere," Derek grunts, moving forward so he's hovering over Stiles' chest.

The werewolf wedges a hand behind Stiles' head and tugs him up so his face is smashed into his crotch. Only Stiles' eyes are uncovered.

"Get some of that," Derek says smugly.

Stiles does. He snuffles into the jock, the depraved part of him getting a thrill from how the material is slightly damp—whether from sweat or pre-come, he doesn't know.

Maybe both.

A few seconds later, Derek begins rolling his hips, grinding himself against Stiles' face, rubbing his junk all over—and Stiles simply lets him. He's content to be docile, to let Derek do whatever he wants with him now that he knows that, by some miracle or questionable twist of fate, the Alpha likes him back. He soaks up the attention, closing his eyes so he can really immerse himself in the scents that surround him. Sweat and musk, sex and _Derek_.

He moans loudly and opens his mouth, sucking on one of Derek's balls through the jock. He tastes salt.

"You're a total slut, aren't you?" Derek observes with a chuckle.

"Mmm…" Stiles hums, riding too high to actually say anything. He hears Derek clearly, though, and the degradation has his toes curling.

"And it's all for me, isn't it? Just give you a whiff of my junk and you turn nearly insensible right away…it's crazy."

Stiles whimpers and hopes Derek takes it for the agreement it is.

" _Mine_ ," the Alpha grits out.

 _Yours,_ Stiles thinks.

All too soon, Derek releases him, and Stiles' head hits the mattress with a soft thump, his neck too sore for him to hold himself up. He can't hide his disappointment, pouting up a storm, but fortunately for him, Derek doesn't leave him that way for long. No, just as Stiles opens his mouth to give him a piece of his mind, Derek turns around and presents him with his back—and most importantly, his backside.

Stiles gapes. "Wow…"

Derek shuffles backward, and Stiles can only stare as that perfect ass gets nearer. The globes are generous and toned and hairy—and the best part?

It's still _sweaty_.

"I think I should stop by your house whenever I'm on a run," Derek suggests, looking back at him over his shoulder. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? Me showing up all gross so you can worship me."

Stiles says something that could be approval, but it's gibberish to his ears.

Derek laughs at him, a sound that's both cruel and somehow fond. "Get ready," he says, and that's all the warning he gives.

Stiles frowns, wondering what he means—and then he gets his answer when Derek sits back, all but smothering him with his meaty ass. His nose ends up wedged between the Alpha's hairy cheeks, and out of shock, he grabs handfuls of them, blunt nails digging into supple flesh, and breathes in sharply, filling his nostrils with an entirely different type of musk. It's still clean, in a way—Derek's personal hygiene is great. He's never smelt bad, even when running and fighting for his life. The sweat is still relatively fresh, just pure salt, and Stiles can feel it rubbing off on the skin of his face as Derek employs those sinuous grinding motions again.

The furled skin of Derek's asshole drags over Stiles' lips, and with a needy sound, he gives in, revelling in the debauchery. It's just him and Derek here, so who's going to judge him for enjoying this?

Parting his lips, Stiles licks over Derek's sweaty hole. The whorl of dark hair around it tickles his tongue.

" _Mmm_ …that's it," Derek encourages. He sounds far away, but Stiles still hears the pleasure in his voice. "There's a good little slut…cleaning up my ass."

Stiles feels like he's high. That foggy sensation returns tenfold as he gives Derek a rimjob, as he laps up sweat like it's nectar and huffs up the scent of it. He could easily get addicted to this—and really, he'd be kidding himself if he claimed he isn't already. If Derek were to stay right where he is until Stiles actually suffocates, well…he doesn't think he'd have a problem with going out like that.

What a way to go.

Cause of death: suffocation by way of Derek Hale's ass. That would be fun to put in his obituary.

Just as Stiles is running out of air, Derek gets off of him, turns back around and, with a growl, tears at Stiles' clothes.

"Need to fuck you," he says, literally ripping Stiles' T-shirt off of him. It falls in tatters to the floor.

"Hey! I liked that shirt…" Stiles complains.

"I'll buy you a new one."

"You'd better."

Too turned on—and still riding that high—to feel self-conscious about Derek seeing him naked, Stiles tries to help when Derek attacks his jeans next. The button goes flying somewhere, and Stiles thinks Derek breaks the zipper by yanking it down too hard, but he can't find it in himself to care that much. He raises his hips, and a second later he's in his birthday suit. He can still smell traces of Derek on his face, junk and ass both. This helps him hold onto his uncaring attitude, just lying there so Derek can look at him.

" _Mine_ ," the Alpha repeats. His top lip curls back, showing off teeth that are a bit too sharp to be entirely human.

With nothing to hinder him now, Stiles is actually able to answer this time. "Yours," he says, baring his neck in a display of submission.

This gets him another growl of approval, before Derek reaches to the side and fumbles open the top drawer of his nightstand. Stiles doesn't see what he takes out until Derek throws it at him and it lands on his sternum.

Lube.

"Get yourself ready," Derek orders, his hirsute chest heaving with every breath.

A quick look at the werewolf's hands elucidates why it would be a very bad idea for Derek to do it instead. The tips of Derek's fingers are adorned by deadly claws—and wow, Stiles is honestly flattered that he's managed to work Derek up enough that he can't put them away again. _Him_ , awkward, gangly Stiles Stilinski.

He must be a secret sex god or something, at least where Derek's concerned.

"Sure thing, big guy," he says.

He takes the lube, pops open the cap and drizzles a generous amount on his fingers. Once he's got three of them good and slick, he spreads his legs and begins stretching himself open for Derek's cock, very much aware that Derek is watching him the entire time. He uses one finger at first, sliding it in and out to get used to it, but it doesn't take him long to feel ready for a second.

This isn't his first rodeo—he doesn't think he could count the number of times he's fingered himself in bed and in the shower to thoughts of Derek. He almost can't believe it's actually happening, that he's _finally_ going to know what it's like to have Derek's dick inside him. Only the man himself looming over him, his blood-red eyes glued to Stiles' little hole, ensures that Stiles knows it's real.

A third finger quickly follows the first two, and then Derek runs out of patience. He grabs Stiles' wrist and wrenches his fingers out. Stiles' vision blurs as Derek repositions him exactly how he wants—on his hands and knees, with Derek behind him.

"Gonna mount you," Derek promises, gripping Stiles' hips tightly with his hands.

The word 'mount' reminds Stiles that this is the wolf inside Derek he's dealing with, not Derek himself. This reminder has a frisson of delight shooting down his spine, and a drop of pre-come leaks from his aching cock. It dangles on a clear strand for a few seconds before falling to soak into the bedspread.

Then Derek is there, his jockstrap gone, insistently pressing the tip of his dick at Stiles' hole. It doesn't go in easily, not even with three fingers' worth of prep. Stiles grits his teeth and instinctively attempts to move away from it, but Derek doesn't let him, his grip on Stiles' hips unremitting. Derek's erection feels even bigger than it looked in the confines of his jock. Stiles cries out and fists the sheets when the head finally pops past the first ring of muscle, but Derek still doesn't relent. He doesn't so much as slow down. He keeps coming, creating space for himself inside Stiles' virginal body with a series of thrusts, pushing another inch in with each one.

By the time Derek is fully sheathed, the scratch of his coarse pubic hair at Stiles' ass cheeks, Stiles is left panting, with the taste of blood on his tongue from accidentally biting through his lower lip.

"God, you're so damn _tight_ ," Derek says reverently behind him. He drapes himself over Stiles' back and envelops him in his strong arms, putting most of his weight on him.

Stiles' own arms—like twigs compared to Derek's—shake, but he doesn't fall. He turns his head, and his eyes widen as he takes in the full beta shift with which he's met. It's kind of scary, but the fear has the hairs on Stiles' arms standing on end, making things even better. It distracts him from the burn of being stuffed full. He's always found Derek's beta shift attractive, loves how dangerous it makes Derek look—and now is no different. No, that's not true. It _is_ different, but only because his attraction to it has _increased_ instead of the other way around.

He's fucked in the head and doesn't have any inclination to change it or even worry.

Stiles engages Derek in another kiss. It's full of the clacking of teeth against fangs, and a bit of Derek's spit slides down Stiles' chin. More blood fills Stiles' mouth as he nicks himself on a fang, and Derek goes wild. It's like the copper taste spurs him on, like a shark is drawn to blood in the water.

The Alpha moves his hips in an animalistic fashion, like a true wolf—short, brutal snaps that force the air from Stiles' lungs. He's held in place, unable to do anything but take it. He can't even gather the wherewithal to continue to kiss Derek back, just stays there with his mouth hanging open, letting Derek devour him. The burn of getting fucked for the first time—and by a dick way bigger than average, no less—lessens as time goes on, until discomfort morphs into pleasure. It's like nothing else, so much better than fucking himself with his own fingers.

The pleasure spikes when Derek adjusts the angle of his thrusts and the head of his cock grazes right over Stiles' prostate. Stiles makes a high whining sound in the back of his throat and arches his back. It's a silent request for more, and Derek gives him more and then some, hitting his prostate several times in quick succession.

Stiles cock leaks copiously beneath him, swings back and forth with each of Derek's thrusts. It slaps against his belly and leaves his happy trail tacky.

Just as Stiles senses his orgasm creeping up on him, Derek stops. "No!" Stiles yells, shoving himself back onto the werewolf's cock as best he can.

"You need to see," Derek says mysteriously, his breath blowing out hot over Stiles' ear.

"S-see what?"

"How much of a good little bitch you are for me," Derek replies. He readjusts his arms, wrapping one around Stiles' chest and cupping his other hand around the back of one of Stiles' thighs.

Despite it seeming obvious, Stiles is wholly unprepared when Derek picks him up and walks away from the bed, his dick staying inside Stiles' ass. "Dude! What the fuck!" he exclaims. He manages to lean his torso sideways and get an arm around the back of Derek's neck, making himself feel more secure.

"Watch."

Derek comes to a stop near his walk-in closet, and Stiles looks around for what Derek is talking about.

"Watch," the Alpha says again. "The mirror."

Oh. There's a mirror on the back of the closet door, which Derek opens wider with his foot so it's against the wall. The mirror is long, and when Derek lets go of his chest and holds up his other leg too, Stiles can see everything—how flushed he is; the bird's nest atop his head; the traces of spit and blood around his mouth; his own dick, swollen and aching, the cut head purple with need; where they're connected…

 _Everything_.

Derek holds him up effortlessly, his biceps bulging as he bends his knees slightly and thrusts up into Stiles' hole. His claws prick Stiles' skin.

Doing as he was told, Stiles watches, entranced, as Derek's hairy balls swing back and forth between his muscular and equally hairy thighs. They're the size of golfballs, filled with come that's soon going to fill Stiles' ass instead. Derek's thick shaft stretches his hole impossibly wide, his rim taut and red.

"See?" Derek says, looking stupidly pleased with himself. "See how much of a slut you are for me? Just get my cock in your ass and you're putty."

Derek walks back toward the bed but keeps them facing the mirror, his steps blind. He perches on the edge, spreads his legs wide and fucks Stiles up and down on his cock using the hands he still has beneath Stiles' thighs. The teenager is like a doll, an inanimate object—a sex toy for Derek to use for his own pleasure. Stiles clenches down around the older man's cock and is rewarded by fangs sinking into his shoulder. Not enough to pierce the skin, thank god, but enough to send a message.

Derek falls backward to lie on the bed and brings Stiles with him. "Hold your legs up," he says, just before he releases them.

Stiles scrambles to comply, wedging his hands behind his knees, and then Derek plants his feet on the mattress and thrusts up hard into his poor hole, fucking him for all he's worth. He grips the front of Stiles' neck to keep their bodies flush together, Stiles' back forced into an arch, and produces his black jockstrap from nowhere.

He shoves it in Stiles' mouth as a makeshift gag.

Once that's done, he cups a hand around Stiles' cock so that, each time he bucks up into the welcoming warmth of Stiles' hole, his palm provides some friction on the underside of his weeping erection.

"I can tell you're getting close again," Derek whispers, nibbling on Stiles' earlobe.

"Derek!" Stiles tries to say around the jockstrap, but all that comes out is, " _Mmf_!"

"You're going to come all over yourself like a messy slut," Derek goes on. "And then I'm gonna fill you up with my load so you smell even more like you're mine. Because you are, aren't you? A slut just for your Alpha?"

A tear slips out of the corner of Stiles' eye as his orgasm suddenly wracks through him. His cock jerks against Derek's palm and spurts thick seed all across his own torso, more and more of it until Stiles thinks it's the most intense orgasm he's ever had. It's prolonged by Derek's assault of his prostate, but it ends eventually and he goes boneless, arms falling limp at his sides and his extremities tingling as he comes back down.

Derek thrusts up a few more times, and then he nearly deafens Stiles with a stentorian roar as he orgasms too. Stiles winces and feels Derek pulse inside him, warmth spreading in his guts.

When it's over, Derek removes his jockstrap from Stiles' mouth and uses the inside of the pouch to wipe down Stiles' front.

"Thanks…" Stiles says tiredly, just letting it happen.

"No problem," Derek responds, voice husky. He helps Stiles roll off of him, his softening cock slipping out of Stiles' hole, and repeats the cleaning process with the jizz that's already escaping his body.

It's a bit humiliating to have Derek essentially wipe his ass, but Stiles stays quiet, too sleepy to say anything about it.

He passes out just as Derek lies down next to him.

* * *

When Stiles returns home that evening, it's with a borrowed henley to replace the T-shirt Derek destroyed, the promise of a date, and both of Derek's dirty jockstraps stuffed in the pocket of his jeans.

**Author's Note:**

> Can you tell I've been in the mood for humiliation and degradation lately? It's becoming a problem…but I don't want to stop.
> 
> It's been a while since I wrote a PWP where the main focus was on scents and musk. To be honest, I don't know how into it I would be were I to try something like this in real life, but I suppose it doesn't matter. I would never want to actually do a lot of the naughty things I've written, but that doesn't change how hot I find it to imagine them. I suppose that's the beauty of fiction, isn't it? Just the idea of getting to worship a hot and sweaty Derek…well, I'll stop there before I spontaneously combust. XD Make sure to let me know what you thought in a comment down below. I love hearing from you guys.
> 
> Thank you to edmundbrimmer for giving me this prompt. I hope it was everything you wanted it to be. :)
> 
> Stay tuned for my next PWP, in which Stiles bends Derek over in front of the pack and proves who the _real_ alpha is.
> 
> **P.S. Don't forget to subscribe to me to be notified when my future updates go live. And please check out my past fics if you haven't already and are interested.**


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